


breaking the habit

by RattyCatty



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Character Study, Drug Use, Endgame Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan, F/F, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Past Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Past Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Maleficent, Recovery, Sex Magic, Withdrawal, kind of, magic addiction, season 2 had that magic addiction/drug thing going on and then they just....abandoned it, so this is about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-19 06:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RattyCatty/pseuds/RattyCatty
Summary: Her first experience of absolute hedonistic pleasure, she’s not high but she may as well be. She pushes her mother through the mirror into another realm and feels the power rush through her veins like adrenaline, hot and strong and angry and pleasurable all at the same time. It fills her up and for once, Regina feels not like the kicked puppy dog but the dog that turns and snaps and snarls viciously back. For once, she is not the one being constantly kicked and betrodden, not her mother’s plaything.Regina has a complicated relationship with magic, substances, and power.





	1. power

**Author's Note:**

> Strap in for some angst :) I was always fascinated by Regina's dependancy on magic and how OUAT handled it, and the things they only implied/didn't show, so here's a thing. I'm by no means an expert on drugs/addiction so I only have my own v limited experience and stuff I've read - don't shout at me pls. There will be past Dragon Queen + Mad Queen because this a look into Regina's whole long, strange life, but it's ultimately a SQ story with a happy ending!
> 
> Warnings: magical addiction, magical highs, drug use (psychedelics, downers + also magical pixie dust), withdrawal, slight functional alcoholism, mentions of abuse/marital rape, Cora + Rumple + the king all being shitty, general sadness of Regina's life, brief non-graphic m/f sex, swearing. Also like, don't share needles kids, but I doubt the EF was great for magical drug hygiene. 
> 
> Feedback is always v appreciated! I have 2/3 of this written already, so hopefully I will actually finish this wow. 
> 
> (Song title is from Linkin Park, RIP Chester Bennington who died 2 years ago this month. Check in on your friends, you never know who's going through it.)

Her first experience of absolute hedonistic pleasure, she’s not high but she may as well be. She pushes her mother through the mirror into another realm and feels the power rush through her veins like adrenaline, hot and strong and _angry_ and _pleasurable_ all at the same time. It fills her up and for once, Regina feels not like the kicked puppy dog but the dog that turns and snaps and snarls viciously back. For once, she is not the one being constantly kicked and betrodden, not her mother’s plaything.

Afterwards, her arms are shaking from a combination of the effort and the anger and the shock of it all, and she’s _terrified,_ gods, she’s just banished her mother, used magic when she swore she would never, but it felt so – so –

_good._

She’s never felt anything like it in her life.

She never will again. The next day, she rides deep into the forest and hands the spellbook back to that imp with clenched fists and a determined jaw. He pushes, and she’ll learn later that’s _all_ he ever does – push for more, just like her mother, the king, just one toxic influence after another. Just an answer to a question, harmless, innocuous – but nothing is ever, especially not for her, especially not with him. Regina turns on him and whispers _I loved it_ with a fierce note of devastation and desperation and something hungry that she’s never heard from herself before.

He giggles sharply, fixes her with a similarly hungry look and she wants to squirm under his lusty gaze, but she doesn’t. “You’ve discovered who you are – you could do so much now –” And then those empty, black, reptilian eyes meet hers and hold them and he sing-songs, _if you let me show you how –_

“I won’t become like her?” is all she can ask when he offers to teach her for nothing but an ominous future favour, because she’s had a taste now, and she craves it, the power, the high, the safety in the knowledge that no one will be able to hurt her again, but she will never become her mother. She thinks of vine ropes and quickly-vanished welts and lies and manipulations and thinks, _no,_ absolutely not, she cannot do this, cannot become her –

She should just run, turn and ride back up that path and keep on until she’s far away from here and _him_ and every painful, tempting thing that threatens to swallow her whole –

“That, dearie, is entirely up to you.”

When he thrusts the book back towards her, she accepts it and curls her fingers tight around its leather-bound edges.

* * *

Rumple’s lessons are effective, thorough, if cruel. Slowly but surely, she learns the fundamentals – runes, magical languages, the physics of magic itself – and then heart-ripping, hexes, potions, charms, and all the while, he teaches her how to steel herself, to manipulate like she has been manipulated, to cause pain like she has felt it.

Sometimes, though, she doesn’t know why she does this at all. Sometimes, Rumple’s lessons are her kneeling in the dirt clutching at her chest because she must know how it feels to have one’s heart squeezed to be able to do the squeezing or taking wave after wave of agonising magic because she has to _know_ to inflict. Sometimes, she pores over dusty texts and stares at crystals for hours until sharp pain radiates behind her eyes and blurs her vision, churns her stomach and leaves her laying in a dark room for the rest of the day.

Magic has always been pleasure and pain all mixed together, but sometimes, there is no pleasure at all.

Even this _thing_ she has chosen for herself – chosen, as if she had much of a choice, but she could argue back and forth with herself all night about that – sometimes feels like just another thing to run from, to rebel against.

 _Rebelling_ finds her laid out on top of the sheets on her bed, semi-clothed, leather riding pants on but unlaced, soft blouse unbuttoned and creased, vest abandoned, with Jefferson the hatter. He’s semi-hard already and it thrills her that she can do that just with her mouth against his. She knows she must be beautiful, even if mother had never thought so, because why else would a man old enough to be her father take her as his wife? This is just another thing that gives her that intoxicating rush of power and an illusion of freedom – meaningless pleasure of her own choosing.

If they’re being technical, she supposes he is the first she’s bedded by choice – there had never been time with Daniel, and the king – well, the less said, the better, she thinks. There are definitely worse candidates – Jefferson’s pretty, with wide eyes and pouty lips and a strange mix of unhinged danger and clumsy coltishness. And he makes her feel good – makes her coil tight and explode low in her abdomen like the king never can.

“Wait – wait,” he says in a strangled voice. “I almost forgot.” He pushes her hands away from the button of his pants, sits up, fishes around on the floor for his discarded coat. After a minute, he produces a tiny chunk of something and holds it up to the light for her to see. “Something from my travels. You’ll like it – I think.”

Regina furrows her brow, leans in to squint and it appears to be some kind of – mushroom? Jefferson splits the chunk into two halves and holds one out to her. “A kind of magic – from Wonderland. They have all kinds of fantastical foods there – some make you smaller, some make you bigger.”

“What does this one do?” She takes her half before she even hears the answer, turns it in her fingers to study it in the light.

“Makes you see things – wonderous things. Bottoms up.” And the way he pops his piece into his mouth, chews and swallows with little grandeur has her thinking _fuck it_ and eating hers too.

It takes time – she thinks it’s not done anything as she pulls him in for another hot kiss but then she’s becoming suddenly aware of silly things – the way the hairs on the back of her neck rise, how her gut feels heavy, how every brush of his tongue against hers has her whole body tingling.

“Gods – what – what is that?” she gasps, pulling away and staring at him. He seems equally floored, eyes wide and full of awe, and she doesn’t even _like him_ that much but she’s sure he has never looked more attractive than he does right now.

Everything is so bright and the light seems to have an iridescent quality as it filters through the window and falls over his face.

“Welcome to the trip,” he whispers with a wild grin and laughs, every bit as mad as people say he is, and she laughs, and the sound feels alien, the motion and muscle-movements uncomfortable like when you suddenly become aware of your own tongue in your mouth. Everything is light, slightly too light, like she’s going to float away and dissolve at any moment, but it feels so fucking _good_ compared to Rumple’s lessons, to pain, to every fucking thing in her confusing mess of a life.

Regina gazes around the room, seeing everything as if her eyes are brand new, and she sinks back into the pillows, pulling Jefferson with her. They lay like that for god knows how long, just staring, watching reality slip further and further away from them. Eventually, the thrumming in Regina’s body becomes too much, almost ticklish, uncomfortably teasing, and she squeezes Jefferson’s hand and then slides into his lap and kisses and touches and feels. Clothes are removed, slowly, clumsily because things like hooks and laces and knots suddenly feel extremely complex. She sinks down on him and rocks her hips lazily and then he’s biting her lip and they’re both gasping, shuddering under the pleasure of it all, revelling in their detachment from their own harsh world. When they cum, it’s one immediately after the other and it is soft and glowing and _glorious_ , and around them, the walls melt in fantastical technicolour.

The thing about the short-term magic of substances or objects, though, is that it always wears off. Jefferson’s Wonderland mushroom is no different. Once the visuals have settled down, hours later, and her body has stopped vibrating with energy and arousal and awe, she’s dropped firmly back into the grey walls and white sheets of her chambers – and the knowledge that soon, Snow and the King will be back from their little tour of the kingdom and she will be back to _pretending_.

 _Pretending_ to be a perfect step-mother, _pretending_ to be a perfect wife, _pretending_ she hasn’t got all this fucking rage inside her.

At least she has her own magic, Rumple’s lessons, the promise of one day having Snow’s heart and her revenge, at last.

At least she has herself.

She wonders if the distant ghostly promise of all that is even enough anymore.

* * *

In a fit of impatience, she goes to find Maleficent, the legendary fire-breathing dragon woman – and finds instead a broken woman holed up in a castle. Regina shudders at the thought that, if this woman can’t get her revenge, if this is what’s become of her, is this what awaits her too? A lifetime of regret, of _giving up?_

A desperate attempt to prove to Mal that she _can_ get revenge and be happy, to prove to herself that she will eventually too, has her realise that actually, Rumple is doing quite well with her, but still she keeps returning to that castle. Mal is intoxicating – intimidating and soothing all at once. There’s something about her that draws Regina in like a moth to a flame and before she even knows what she’s doing, they’re kissing, hot and slow and heady.

And so she starts dating a dragon woman.

It’s her favourite rebellion to date – absolutely the most pleasurable with the least pain. Mal takes care of her, gives her space from the King, soothes the bruises on her thighs with gentle kisses and magic, teaches her hexes and healing that Rumple would deem a waste of their time. She’s a lover and a teacher and a _friend_ , and sometimes, when things are not so serious and dark, they laugh and drink rich wine and jibe at one another until they fall into bed once more.

It’s one of the serious nights when they’re lying in bed, Regina trying to force away tears that well up and both of them breathing hard, that Maleficent wordlessly offers the needle to her. She never has before – not after that first time they’d met, but something must scream that Regina needs _something_ more today, something to take the edge off.

So she takes it, just as wordlessly, and eyes it for a moment.

“Only if you want to, pet. It’ll make the pain go away,” Mal murmurs. “For a little while, anyway.”

Regina swallows and stabs the needle into her finger. The relief is almost instant, everything going foggy and hazy around her. She’s right – the pain _is_ gone – _all_ feeling is gone, and all she can do is curl deeper into the blankets around them, curl into Mal’s side. She’s vaguely aware of a hand stroking her hair, of the needle being eased out of her hand as the other woman dips into the bottle again and joins her in swampy nothingness.

Time is slow.

Or Regina thinks so at least – she has no way of knowing, no way of telling until soft, dim blue light starts to filter in through the gap in the curtains.

She feels nothing. She’s not sad – not happy either. She’s not anything.

She thinks maybe she’ll never move again. She doesn’t have any strong feelings about it either way. She just presses closer to the blonde, hands clutching at her waist.

“How are you doing, little one?” Mal whispers into the dark.

“Fine,” Regina answers quietly, a little hoarse. “I’m fine.”

She _is_ fine. Because all her pain is gone. She doesn’t feel angry or sad or bruised or anything but the sheets against her skin and Mal’s warmth. She doesn’t feel the sting of powerlessness, but she doesn’t feel power _ful_ either. She’s just a body in a bed.

And that – that makes her panic, just a little, as much as she can possibly through this cotton wool high they’re sharing. Because if she is not powerful, if she is not angry, if she is not carrying this rage with her, using it to power herself through this stupid, painful life of hers towards the dream of _revenge,_ then who is she? What is she but a sad little girl?

Regina reaches for her magic, pushes for that familiar buzz in her veins, but it’s impossible because magic is feeling, and she is very much not capable of feeling anything powerful enough for magic right now. All she has is a faint feeling of anxiety, dread pushing at the edges of her consciousness, and she squeezes her eyes shut against it and feels around for Mal’s hand.

She never does it again. They experiment with other things together – pixie dust that’s apparently an aphrodisiac for sorcerers like them and makes them fuck like rabbits for two days straight, Ragweed that they roll and smoke and has them laughing themselves into a deep, satisfying sleep – but she never touches Maleficent’s sleeping curse again. As tempting as it is sometimes, to numb the pain, it’s more tempting to hold tightly onto her anger – it’s the only thing grounding her most of the time and she can’t afford to float away, not when she has a princess to kill and a lover to avenge.

Holding onto her anger, it turns out, will cost her everything.

But it doesn’t matter, because finally, she casts the curse and brings them to a land without magic and everyone is _miserable_ , and Regina delights in it.

* * *

For a little while.

It turns out thrusting herself into a land without magic is absolutely the last thing her body, which has been pulsing with magic for the last decade, wants or needs.

When it seems to realise that they are here to stay and the residual magic inside her runs out, it enters panic-mode – withdrawal, she muses thanks to her newfound knowledge.

Graham – stupid, naïve Graham – assumes she’s sick with the flu when she starts burning up when they’re in bed together. He offers to stay and she hasn’t the energy to fight him on it, so he runs about fetching cool flannels and medication and tea until she feels thoroughly suffocated and sends him away with a hoarse snap.

Within days, she’s in full-blown delirium, sweating and nauseous and fisting the sheets beneath her as she yearns for just the smallest bit of fucking magic – _god,_ she’d never realised how much she relied on it. Even when she wasn’t using, it was still there, thrumming just beneath the surface of her skin, keeping her body running a few degrees warmer, a little stronger, a little more resistant.

She rides it out, because there _is_ no magic here, that’s the whole point, and it’s not like there’s anyone who can do any fucking thing about it. She sleeps when she can and drags herself to the bathroom for water and bites down on her lip and tries not to sob. She thinks of power, pleasure, pain, of Mal’s magic to her clit just before she’d come, of the first time she’d taken a heart and enjoyed it, of reality melting around her in a grey old chamber, of the sheer ecstasy she’d felt as she’d cast the curse. She thinks of Snow in her little class room living the same day over and over, of the prince comatose in a hospital bed, of their baby lost somewhere out in the big wide world, all three of them separated and _suffering_ , and finally, after a week, it is over.

After that, it’s easier because she might not have magic, but she _does_ have power still – her big house, her high-standing position, the security of her knowledge, and she’s finally got what she wanted.

She lives and tries not to think about the growing pit in her chest that feels like the haze of a cursed needle.

* * *

If she drinks a bit too much, turns to the decanter of apple cider or the bottle of hard, aged scotch she keeps in her office whenever things get complicated and _too much_ , it’s no one’s business. If she all too often sinks a full bottle of wine on a work night while she eats dinner alone, retires to her bed early to curl up and watch the world spin, it’s no one’s business but her own.

It’s not magic, but it’s close enough, maybe.

It’s not magic, but when she feels stressed, anxious, it soothes her like the buzz of energy in her veins once would, a lifetime ago. It’s not magic, but when she feels _nothing, s_ he can drink and drink and drink and then she can laugh or cry or rage like there’s not a gaping hole in her chest.

Archie asks about it in one of her sessions and she promptly shuts off that line of inquiry before it can go anywhere – an indignant snapping remark and gritted teeth, and he leans back, thoroughly chastised, but with something knowing, understanding in his eyes.

This is one vice, at least, that no curse or mother or king can take from her. She keeps it hidden, never turns up to work drunk or allows herself to make a scene in public, but it’s one vice she never quite manages to let go, even decades later when everything changes for better or worse.

* * *

Eighteen years pass, living the same day over and over until one day there’s a boy, tiny and beautiful and perfect, and soon after, a blonde saviour, a power struggle, a sleeping curse, a curse broken.

Time moves fast after Emma gets here and breaks the curse, and everything is all fucked up, Henry hates her and she hates herself for it, hates Emma, and yet she finds herself _yearning_ like she hasn’t in a long time.

Yearning for Henry, yearning to be the woman he looks up to, maybe yearning for Emma because she is bright and brave and _good_ , everything Henry idolises, and she wants that so badly – craves his affection and Emma’s irritating strength and power. Because Emma is _so_ powerful whether she wants to admit it or not and it annoys Regina to no end because the idiot has no idea, doesn’t even want the magic she’d been born with and Regina can’t even light a stupid goddamn candle right now.

The wraith comes after her and she’s crouched on the floor, spinning the hat and reaching desperately for her magic to save herself and all of the idiots in this room who are inexplicably trying to help her. Nothing happens though – there’s fire roaring just feet away, David waving a torch, every bit the handsome hero now that he remembers, and still she can’t even feel her magic within herself.

“It’s different here,” she growls as Emma hovers behind her, impatient and all lanky, nervous energy.

“Now would be the time!” _Fuck off, David._

Emma kneels down next to her, so close Regina’s breath hitches. The saviour squeezes her arm gently – concern, Regina recognises, but doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because that one innocent touch has something inside her flaring up – _magic,_ suddenly all rushing to the surface at once, reacting to the sheer power inside Emma. It feels like being able to breathe suddenly after twenty-eight years suffocating and she gasps at the power, that rush of ecstasy.

The hat spins out of control, twirling wildly on the floor until a portal appears, and Regina hears Emma suck in a quiet breath. They share a look of shock, a question in Emma’s eyes that Regina doesn’t know the answer to so she ignores it, turns back to the portal and steps back from it, an arm out to push Emma back too.

Everything happens very quickly after that – the wraith is sucked into the vortex with Emma just behind, Snow leaps in after her like an idiot, and David jumps and hits the tiles with a grunt. The hall is quiet, too quiet, and Regina is left with a confused feeling of dread, light and dark magic still coursing over her skin and trickling through her veins in a way that has her trembling and panting as she stares at the now-useless hat.

* * *

After that little anomaly of Emma’s magic vibrating in place of her own, Regina finds herself for all intents and purposes, impotent again. Charming comes to taunt her about it, chin high as he spills threats against her and she bares her teeth, gives as good as she gets and prays for the strength to burn the moron to a crisp.

Enough is enough.

She’s breathing hard, eyes wild when she goes to Rumple for the same spellbook she’d tried to give back all those years ago, and after enough needling, manipulating, prodding around things he’d rather keep secret, he relinquishes the book to her. _Careful dearie, these are straight up spells_ , he smirks. _Rough on the system_ , but she curls her lip and snarls back because she doesn’t _care_. She will do whatever it takes to get her magic back, to get her power and her _son_ back.

Her hands are shaking with the power of the book and anticipation of taking a hit of such potent magic as she traces the gem on the front with her thumb, leafs through the thin pages. When she blows gently over the parchment, the magic rises up off the parchment, dusty and intoxicating, and she quickly inhales, feels it enter her system and hit her brain, mix with her blood. It feels like the very first time and she gasps, shivers, resists the urge to moan, and when the euphoria passes and she can open her eyes, she feels strong again.

Powerful.

Her magic is sparking at the tips of her fingers, restless after three decades of being dormant, and she feels energetic enough to sprint a marathon. She thinks of her son, of that insipid prince trying to fill boots too big for him. She thinks of Whale and Gold and everyone in this town who wants her dead and will try to keep her son from her and her chest fills with rage as she stands.

Now she is ready.


	2. weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of addiction, mentions of drugs, mentions of abuse/marital rape, Cora + Rumple being shitty, general sadness of Regina's life, swearing, vomit, non-graphic electro torture and the aftermath, vague suicidal ideation in the form of wanting to give up and self-sacrifice. 
> 
> There's some rehashing of season 2 because there are a few really important scenes I wanted to include and feel necessary, but hopefully it isn't boring. Let me know what you think and if you'd prefer a more divergent story or a more canon exploration! I'm not set yet. (I'm not totally happy with this chapter, couldn't make up my mind which direction to go and how far I wanted to stick to/veer away from canon so I may tweak but I'll put in the notes if I do!)

The exact thing that was supposed to give her power and get her son back only ends up serving to push him further away from her. She has him, for just a brief moment, while the magic is still thrumming inside her uncontrollably, stronger than she’s ever felt. She’s manic with it, flying high and she can’t comprehend _why_ he wouldn’t choose her, why he would turn down his _mother_ and his home and anything he could ever want at a flick of her hand, for a convict who’d missed his whole life so far and a sham of a prince and princess.

And then she begins to come down, settle to a slightly more stable level and Henry says, “I don’t wanna _be you_ ,” and she crashes all the way back to reality. He runs out of the room, leaves her sitting on his bed, and she remembers vines wrapping around her wrists and ankles, magical leather belts binding her mid-air, the restricting corset of a wedding dress and _no–_

She remembers Rumple’s words in his shop earlier – _I told you once you didn’t look like her, but now, now I could see it_ – and how she had sworn to herself she’d never become her mother, but she _has._

She stares hard at that god forsaken spellbook and she realises what she must do. Realises that her son will _never_ love her if she keeps him here by force or with magic, just as her own mother had. Realises that sometimes, magic is not the way – that sometimes, all magic breeds is hate and abuse.

When David practically breaks down her front door, sword swinging and chest puffed up, she is ready – or as close to it as she can be.

“Henry, you’re gonna go home with David,” Regina tells him softly, watches the surprise bloom on her son’s beautiful, delicate face.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here. I was–” _cruel, stupid, abused, high as a fucking kite._ “I don’t know how to love very well. I wasn’t capable of it for a very long time, but I know – I remember, that if you hold onto someone too hard, that doesn’t make them love you,” Regina murmurs, feeling her black, bruised heart thump in her chest.

And as she continues, earnestly says her apologies and tries to keep the tears from welling up, she prays she hasn’t gone too far, hopes to all the gods in all the realms that she can fix this and get him to stay with her _willingly_. “I want you to be here because you want to be – not because I forced you, and not because of magic. I want to redeem myself,” she whispers, and her clever, bright little boy looks at her almost like he understands, as much as any ten-year-old possibly can about these things.

When David leaves with Henry, sword slung over his shoulder, Regina watches and finally allows the tears to fall. And then she goes to burn that damn spellbook except – getting rid of it permanently leaves her vulnerable, what if she needs it in the future, what if something happens –

Maybe, just maybe she can hold onto it. Just in case.

She locks it safely away instead and hides the key.

* * *

The magic stays at her fingertips even after hiding the book away, always tempting her. She’s not doing much of anything these days, barely eating, barely sleeping, just staying in the house and drinking too much, so it’s not as if she’s _hurting people_ but it’s incredibly tempting to simply flick a light on or off, or warm her coffee when she’s forgotten about it, or poof from the kitchen to the bedroom.

But she can’t. Won’t. She promised Henry that she wouldn’t use magic, and if this is how to get her son back, then she’ll power through and clean her act up so one day, Henry can come home and love her again.

On the second day of struggling to do everything manually, without magic, like a normal fucking person without a…dependency, she finds herself at Archie’s door. He seems somewhat pleasantly surprised to see her, and when she explains, he promptly moves aside to let her in.

It – helps, to talk about it, Regina is slightly shocked to find. It’s harder now that the curse is broken than it had once been when half her words had been lies to hide the existence of magic, queens, kings – the vulnerability had felt allowable, because it was almost like everything was happening to someone else, someone not quite her. Now she has to force every word out because it goes against every single instinct she has, but it helps. Archie, despite how fake and meaningless his PhD is, is a good listener and maybe the least judgemental person in this town. He nods and offers supportive words, little suggestions, and as grating as Regina finds the therapy process to be, the cricket seems to genuinely want to help. They make progress – slow, gradual, but progress all the same, Archie enthuses.

Except then there’s a whole mess with Whale and his stupid attempt at bringing the dead to life once more, and they end up at the stables, a defiled Daniel threatening Henry and _god,_ what is she supposed to do, let Daniel hurt her son? Let David _shoot_ her lover? She fights with David, sobs, pushes at him ineffectually because she has never had much physical brawn when all her power has been in _magic._ “Just let me talk to him,” Regina cries, and finally, David resigns, nods, and leaves her to it.

Even blank, confused, angry, Daniel is beautiful in the slanting afternoon light of the stables. He chokes her out but still she refuses to use magic on him – she won’t hurt him, won’t break her promise to her son, so gasps out, “I love you,” with the last of her breath. _Love is weakness_ is what her mother always taught her, but maybe, just maybe –

Daniel shudders a violent breath and then he’s _him_ again, and they’re hugging, sobbing into one another. But he convulses in her arms, gasps things like _stop – stop the pain, let me go_ and she shakes her head because she won’t, _can’t_ , but also can’t bear to see him in so much pain. He’s shaking, whimpering, and she argues, clings to him, shakes her head.

“Then love again,” are his last words before he loses the fight for his conscience and turns cold and murderous again.

All Regina knows is Daniel _wouldn’t want this_ , wouldn’t want to be violent or hurtful, so she breaks her promise and freezes him with magic and sobs as she does so, pressing her palm against his just to feel him against her one last time. With a wave of her other hand, he slowly dissipates into the air, and maybe she should feel relief, pleasure, using magic for the first time in two days but all she feels is loss, like the first time all over again. She drops to her knees and weeps.

She weeps for Daniel, she weeps for Henry, for being a bad mother and having a bad mother, weeps until her hands stop shaking with magical energy and the shock of it all. When her tears finally run dry, she picks herself up and forces her feet to walk her to Archie’s office and resets the magic-free clock to zero.

* * *

As it turns out, refusing to use magic in a town where Magical Shit is constantly happening is a somewhat pointless endeavour. Pretty soon after the incident with Daniel, Henry and David require help to get to the nether-realm, which involves mixing up a sleeping curse.

A sleeping curse, so David can send a message to Snow about how to defeat _Cora._ Regina’s blood runs cold when Henry tells them about her in his nightmare, because she cannot come here, she will ruin _everything_ – it’s just not an option.

So she helps them. She makes the sleeping curse, allows the careful, methodical actions of potion-brewing to calm her, because this has always been a part of magic that has fascinated her on a logical basis rather than out of any lust for pleasure or power. There’s still a thrill to it, security in the knowledge that she can brew all sorts of potions to protect herself and hurt others, but it’s less – safer, somehow, because potions require ingredients and preciseness and patience and time, and it’s nothing as volatile as the force of nature that she can call to her fingertips oh-so-easily.

Henry pads in quietly and watches with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. He asks questions, and she answers, because she is _really trying_ to be honest with him, and when he asks if she’s used, she quells the defensive answer that bubbles up in her throat. “I’ve really been trying,” she promises, and he gives her a small knowing smile.

“It’s ok,” Henry says. “At least you’re using it to help people now.”

It feels like a blessing of sorts. She breathes a small, self-deprecating laugh, squeezes his hand, smiles. “I’m trying.”

 _Trying_ , because the feeling of accomplishment that washes over her when she completes the potion is something she’s missed ever so much – the challenge and achievement of potion-crafting.

 _Trying_ , because she can’t pretend part of her doesn’t feel satisfaction when lacing the spinning wheel with sleeping curse for David and collecting the set, so to speak.

 _Trying,_ because Rumple has always known what to say to strike fear into her heart, to get what he wants out of her, and she _cannot_ risk allowing her mother through the portal.

“You won’t be able to be a better _anything_ if Cora comes through,” he says, and, “She will be a threat to everyone, including your son,” and she knows it’s true, knows her mother and how she will destroy anyone and everyone she deems a _weakness_ to Regina.

She cannot let that happen.

So she lies straight to her son’s face. She lies to him and suppresses the sick feeling in her stomach when he smiles and believes her, and then she follows Gold down into the mines to steal the fairy dust. It shimmers in the dim light, comes alive with the magic of the fairy wand, and Regina gazes in awe, feels its power stroke along her skin even from her distance. Beautiful, powerful, but dangerous – in large amounts, it’s _deadly_ – perfect for their purposes, she thinks grimly.

She can’t shake the dread that she _shouldn’t_ be doing this, shouldn’t be breaking her promise, lying, using stolen magic, because Snow and Emma are heroes and heroes always find a way, however irritating the fact is.

And yet – here she is, watching a death curse of their own doing crackle and flash inside the well.

Her mother cannot come through.

Will not come through.

She will make sure of it.

She hears footsteps behind her, light and fast, and Henry’s familiar voice cracking as he cries, “You’re not helping them, are you?” and “Good _always_ defeats evil!” with his whole heart and soul. He says it with so much conviction that Regina desperately wants to believe him.

But she thinks of _love is weakness_ and a hand crushing Daniel’s heart, an arranged marriage, the manipulation of her whole life –

Henry lunges for the well and she holds his wriggling body tight against her own as he yells and yells. He begs her to have faith in him, to believe that Emma and Snow will survive and come through the portal, and Regina’s heart feels like it is shattering in her chest. God, she would do anything for her little boy, _anything,_ and if this is what he wants, if this is what he truly believes, she’ll give it to him. She turns towards the well with her hands outstretched over the sickly green magic, ignores Rumple’s warning and takes the curse into herself.

It is _agony,_ god, pain burning through every vein and nerve – a death curse is meant todo exactly what it says on the tin, and no one has ever absorbed one before, at least not lived to tell the tale.

Regina collapses to the forest floor, kneeling in the dirt, shaking and shuddering and feeling all the world like she’s going to vomit or pass out. Maybe both. “I’m sorry, Henry,” she breathes, voice wobbling, and she turns her face downwards and wills herself not to crumble to pieces. Not now, not here. He can’t see her like this.

And then, lo and behold, two heroes pop out of the well and Henry is crying _mom!_ and it takes Regina a heart-breaking moment to realise he doesn’t mean her, that he means his _other_ mom, and she hates herself a little for getting her hopes up.

Rumple gives her a knowing, troubled look, and turns and leaves her in the dirt. All she can do is grit her teeth and push herself up onto shaking legs, because god knows no one else is going to help her up.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Snow asks dumbly, only just becoming aware of the scene around her in typical Snow White fashion, and Henry gushes, “She saved you! She saved both of you!” and turns in Emma’s arms to look at her with something very much like pride.

Emma – Emma with her arms around her son and pink lips parted in shock – breathes a surprised, “Thank you,” and Regina is irritated by the pleased thrill it sends through her. To be appreciated, thanked for doing something _good_ for even a second, feels almost as good as ripping a heart. “You’re welcome,” she says with a curt nod and is surprised to find she means it.

And when they’re alone, the three of them, Regina having accepted the moment has passed, Emma approaches her, still breathing hard, still clinging to their son. “Um – your mom, she’s uh – she’s a piece of work, y’know?”

Regina allows herself a tired, breathy laugh because everything is so weird and fucked up, and she _knows_ , she’s spent her entire life trying to escape from the damage that piece of work did, but Emma, stupid Emma who eats like a child and plays wastepaper basketball on shift, defeated Cora Mills and lived. “Indeed I do.”

“Welcome back,” she adds with a genuine smile, and Emma leans her head against Henry’s and says _thanks_ and looks at her with something like understanding. Understanding, because she’s seen her share of cruel mothers and broken kids, and more often than not, broken kids become cruel mothers. Understanding of the damage it takes to turn an innocent child against the whole entire world.

As it happens, none of it matters too much anyway, because at the end of the day, Regina finds herself alone, shaking and sick with death curse on her cool bathroom tiles while the others celebrate. She heaves again, retching violently, and as she does, she curses out magic, wishes to hell she’d just rode away and never accepted Rumple’s spellbook that fateful day in the forest a lifetime ago, because if this is the price, she doesn’t want any of it.

* * *

She spends the better part of three days on the bathroom floor, clinging to the bowl and throwing up what feels like everything she has ever eaten in her entire life. Turns out that absorbing a death curse? Not great for the human body.

On the second, there’s a bang on the door, and then another a few minutes later, and then frantic knocking and a cry of _Regina? You in there?_ in a familiar voice. Regina can’t bring herself to answer and she closes her eyes, leans her forehead against the cool tile and wills her to go away.

She doesn’t – instead, barges in in typical Emma Swan style. “Regina?” she calls all through the house, finally making her way upstairs and into the bedroom, the open bathroom. Her gun is out, poised, ready to fire, and Regina just looks up and straight into the barrel wearily.

“Come to put me out of my misery, Miss Swan?”

“Shit – no, I thought something might have – are you ok? You look like shit,” Emma babbles, too fast and a concerned frown on her face that makes no sense. She lowers the gun, holsters it sheepishly and appears to be trying not to look anywhere except Regina’s face. And yes, Regina supposes she must do – sweaty hair clinging to her sweaty face, wearing only her underwear and a camisole that sticks to her skin because she’d been too feverish to wear anything more, the room no doubt reeking of sickness.

“Thank you so much,” she deadpans anyway, and pushes herself up into a sitting position against the wall. “It’s saving you and your insipid mother that did this, so I hope you’re happy.” She can’t resist the dig – she has to get her thrills where she can these days, now she’s mostly magic-free.

“The – death curse? That did all this?” Emma spots her empty water glass and dips down to pick it up, filling it up at the sink.

God, Regina wishes she’d just leave well – well, not _well –_ alone, but she nods her thanks anyway when Emma presses it into her hand. “It’s a _death_ curse. As far as the price of magic is concerned, I’m getting off lightly,” Regina sighs. So far, at least. This could all just be symptoms of some slow, painful death, and they’ll be finding her body in a week’s time. If anyone even looks for her, that is. She shakes away morbid thoughts and fixes Emma with a quizzical look. “How do you know about that anyway?”

“Henry told me. And why – and it’s ok, y’know,” Emma says. “I mean, I think Mary-Margaret is kind of pissed but like, I understand. I fought that bitch; I totally get why you wouldn’t want her coming through.”

Something about Emma calling her mother a bitch, saying she _totally gets it_ , as if it’s all that simple makes Regina chuckle slightly deliriously. Emma just looks at her funny until she sobers up and sips the cool water cautiously, hoping her stomach won’t reject it immediately. 

“So, I actually came to invite you to a thing. There’s a potluck on Friday night to celebrate properly, everyone’s going to bring stuff, it’ll be nice. You should come,” Emma says lightly, bouncing on her toes. “Since you, y’know – saved us and all. We wouldn’t be here without you.” Regina squints.

“You…want me to come to a potluck celebrating _Snow White_ and the _Saviour’s_ homecoming?” Regina asks sceptically, feeling queasy again. “You do remember who I am.”

“I mean, sure. It’ll be nice,” Emma says again. “And if people see you, that you’re just a _person_ , maybe they won’t be so afraid.”

“Or they’ll run screaming in the opposite direction whatever happens. Miss Swan, I am the _evil_ queen. I massacred entire villages. I’m a volatile magical _junkie_ ,” she spits. “One good deed doesn’t change that. These things don’t go unforgotten.” She sets the water down and shifts closer to the toilet, feeling her stomach start flipping again.

" _Junkie_?" Emma questions with a frown. "It's an addiction?" Regina doesn't answer, just presses her lips into a grim line, and Emma sighs and lets it go. “Sure. I guess. But – if you wanna come, I think Henry’s kind of sick of stuff on toast and cereal for dinner. He’s missing your cooking. We’d like it if you came.”

Regina swallows, and god – Henry – she hates Emma for bringing him up because how can she possibly say no to a chance to see him without dire circumstances or David breathing down her neck? Textbook manipulation right there. She hates it. Hates Emma. “Thank you,” she just replies hoarsely. “I’ll consider,” and means _I’ll definitely be there now you have used my son as bait._

And then she’s leaning over the toilet bowl again as her stomach betrays her and she throws up nothing but acid and the one glass of water she’s sipped since last throwing up. She feels Emma’s eyes on her, a hand suddenly on her back, rubbing slow circles, her other holding back Regina’s hair. She burns with hate, humiliation, thinks just how far she has fallen to be sick with magic _again_ and accepting help from the _Saviour_ , whose fault it is she’s in this state anyway _._ She should have let them die.

No, she thinks, she shouldn’t – wouldn’t have, not with Henry so desperate for her to do the right thing. Not with Emma and this nonsensical _belief_ she seems to have in Regina – the only adult in the world right now who does, besides her therapist who is contractually obliged to at least pretend.

Gods, why does Miss Swan have to make everything complicated?

“Can I get you anything?” Emma whispers softly when Regina is finished, squatting next to her, her hand still making those soothing motions over Regina’s spine. “Meds? Soup?”

Regina shakes her head and slumps back against the wall, shaking and sweating with the strain. She’s never been good at being ill, never been able to just throw up and deal with it. When she’s ill, she’s _ill._ “Just leave me be, Swan,” she croaks and shuts her eyes, wills it all away.

* * *

To her behest, Emma returns the next day with Granny's in tow. She lets herself in again, and Regina thinks to herself absently that she really must start remembering to lock the door. She's still on the bathroom floor, having managed to shower and change her clothes before doubling over and emptying her guts again.

"I toldyou to leave me alone," she groans, wiping the sweat from her brow and glaring. 

Emma shrugs and smiles tentatively. "You did. I didn't listen." She sets the bag down on the dresser in the bedroom and enters the bathroom, placing a Granny's take-out cup down next to Regina. It smells herbal, soothing, and she finds that she can't be that mad at the idiot after all. "I brought soup from Granny's too, if you're feeling up to it," Emma says brightly.

She very much doubts she will, but she forces a bland smile. "Why are you doing this, Emma?" 

"You saved us," is all she offers. 

The herbal tea goes down easily and settles her stomach - Granny's own mix, the one she knows had always settled Regina's stomach when she'd been sick during the curse, and even earlier when she'd been ill as a girl and Granny had just been a baker, bringing biscuits to mother's estate. She can't manage more than a few mouthfuls of soup though, and finds herself actually apologetic to Emma for wasting it. Which is stupid, because it's not like she _asked_ her to bring it. _Ugh._

"Will this pass?" Emma asks with a wince when she holds Regina's hair back for the third time in two hours, and Regina shivers, because honestly? She has no idea. There's nothing to go on with this. 

"Probably," she croaks, taking the water gratefully and rinsing her mouth. She flushes the toilet and sits back on her haunches. "Or I could waste away and die slowly and painfully. There's not a lot of writing about this, on account of it being a death curse." 

They talk about other things, too, since Emma seems hellbent on staying with her for whatever reason. Guilt, probably. They talk about Henry, mostly, but sometimes they talk about magic - Emma's magic, Regina's, light magic and dark magic. 

"You said before that you're a - junkie. Does that mean - is magic addictive? Will I get addicted if I use it?" Emma asks later, a note of anxiety in her voice. She has this newfound _thing_ inside her that everyone expects her to use to save their worthless lives, so her suspicion is understandable. 

Regina searches for the right words, muses for a moment and then decides that she has spent the day upchucking her insides in front of the other woman, so she may as well fall a little further. She may as well have this conversation that can go nowhere good. "I suppose it's possible, if you're not careful," she agrees with a purposefully neutral voice. "But your magic is light, formed of and powered by true love. It's...harder to become addicted to. Less corruptible."

"Like, I'm using good old Mary-Jane and you've gone straight for crack, or something?" 

Regina snorts. " _Or something._ Also, you have a family and people who love you and a town who respect you. You're in good circumstances. Magic is more the symptom than the sickness - like all forms of addiction."

Something flickers across Emma's face, dark and unreadable. "I haven't always been," she says quietly and then shuts up. Regina can tell Emma is thinking about a _piece of work mother_ and murdered first-loves and stepmothersand of her slowly growing understanding of the power imbalances in their realm, and she has to turn away from the dawning on the woman's face. 

* * *

By Friday, she’s surprised to find she’s well enough to shower, dress, and go about her life as normal without having to empty her stomach every half hour. She’s still weak, tired, but she’s ok, and she spends the afternoon baking a lasagne, with the exact amount of spice Henry loves. She has never mixed magic with her cooking, so this is an easy distraction, and she finds herself having good old-fashioned _fun_ for the first time in a long time as she moves her hips to the soft music playing on the radio.

Everyone stares as she enters, some fearful, some _angry,_ Leroy literally brandishing the nearest sharp object _,_ but Emma steps forward, welcomes her with a tentative smile and wide, surprised eyes – _you came_. “I invited her,” she proclaims, facing the crowd, daring anyone to disagree.

The distraction gives Regina time to slip behind her and place her lasagne with the rest of the dishes and then _Henry_ plops himself down on the seat nearest her and gives her a warm smile. _I’m glad you came_ , he says and it makes it all worthwhile. She can’t bring herself to care that Snow and David are having what looks like harsh words with Emma in the corner – none of it matters but her son and making him proud.

It doesn’t last – Henry is happy to sit away from her to eat his food, and god knows nobody else will come and talk to her, so she sits alone, feeling uncharacteristically awkward, and then leaves when it gets to be too much. Emma follows her out, all hopeful smiles and breathless, gentle words.

Gentle words, good intentions, but a terrible habit of putting her foot in her mouth – _Henry wanted it_ and _oh, I’m not sure that’s best_ and _Archie said you’re trying_ and the moment is ruined, everything is ruined. Regina feels that all-too-familiar rage swell inside her again because who is this woman to keep her from her son, who is she to spend all that time fussing and talking with Regina in the bathroom and still not trust her to take care of her son, and she snaps. Except, no, she's trying, she has to be good, so she takes it back quickly and smiles through the queasy feeling of betrayal and feeling lied to and the tangible feeling of _everything is about to come apart_.

She walks home with her head down and her hands in her pockets, and when she awakes in the morning it is to the revelation that she is wanted for murder – Archie’s, and she feels something like grief, because if anyone deserved it at least, it wouldn’t be him. Emma remains soft, gentle with her, actually listens and watches and goes with her instincts and _believes_ in Regina, right up until the last moment when the evidence apparently becomes undeniable. They fight, yell at each other about _my son_ and _not your son, you’re not getting anywhere near him_ , and harsh, stinging words are said on both sides.

Regina is blind with rage, and she throws her arms out, sends Emma flying and skidding along the concrete walkway. It’s a trap, a set-up, a test, she realises too late, and she’s failed and screwed everything up. _Everything is coming apart._ “We know how you are, and who you will _always be,”_ Emma grits out slowly and it’s the worst thing she could have said. When did Emma Swan get so good at hurting her so badly?

When Regina started _trusting,_ having fuzzy feelings about her, she realises later. All she can do now is raise her arms and poof away because fuck, she’s fallen off the wagon today, she may as well get herself out of this terribly uncomfortable situation. She locks herself in her vault, alone with her old dresses and her self-loathing, and tries not to feel the sting of rejection.

* * *

Cora is back.

Despite everything, she survived, and she is back, alive, in Storybrooke, like some kind of manipulative cockroach who just won’t _fucking_ _die_. She sets everything up perfectly, has everyone believing Regina is a relapsed murderer, had done the poising of Emma and Henry against her, meticulous about every detail, every hurt like she always is and always has been.

She has lost Henry, and she has lost Emma, and Archie is gone – the only three people who may still have believed in her, dead or given up.

Regina is where Cora wants her: broken.

At least she has the knowledge that Emma had _almost_ believed in her, had almost believed she wasn’t capable of murder anymore and had _changed_. But the supposed evidence was undeniable, and she almost understands – almost. Part of her though is filling slowly up with unfurling rage, deep down even though she is _trying_ to be Good, and Cora knows better than anyone how to find and exploit weakness like that.

Regina tries so hard to be strong, gets in her car and drives them into town to show the heroes the truth, but mother won’t stop saying words, words that sting and words that sooth in an expert pattern. Regina’s vision is soon swimming with tears despite herself and she has to pull over, and Cora says _I am so sorry_ and _I can do better_ and _let me into your heart_ and _together_.

All she has ever wanted is to be loved, to have her mother’s love and approval, to be _enough_ , and with that, she crumbles, leans into her mother’s warmth and closes her eyes and cries silently. She knows, she has learnt, that so often everything Cora says is a web of lies, but gods, she just wants to believe for once. She is so sick of trying.

And that is how she falls back into dark magic full time.

It never feels as good as those first times, never as good as when she’d inhaled the magic straight from the spellbook, but her mother watching proudly as she summons fire and rips hearts for their joint plan – this is a high she’s rarely experienced before and she loves it.

She suppresses all guilt, tells herself she will never earn the heroes’ respect however hard she tries so it’s really better off if she doesn’t debase herself for them, listens to her mother as she tells her the same things, and resigns herself to the self-indulgent rage that comes so easily after a lifetime of injustices. Dark magic is anger, remembering her darkest moments and rising above them, allowing the emotion to fill her up and strengthen her, and it is familiar. It is safe. It is deceptively easy.

It is painful.

Henry is disappointed – disgusted, even, pleads with her to stop, threatens to blow up magic, yells harsh, upset words to her face. Emma rises to every challenge Regina and Cora throw at them, snarls back and wields her own immature, uncontrolled and clumsy but _powerful_ magic and defends her family with all her heart.

She makes a point to make Regina the Villain – there’s no longer any understanding in her eyes, no acceptance that perhaps they are more similar than either of them will admit, no trying to believe in her when all the evidence around her tells her she shouldn’t. There is just that same fire and rage that had been them during the curse.

That’s familiar too, at least. Grounding.

But it hurts all the same, and late at night when she’s alone in her bed, lying in the dark, mother all the way down the hall, Regina imagines she has the strength to say no, to do the right thing and make Henry proud. She imagines what it might be like to be _friends_ with Emma Swan, or at least civil – to have someone believe in her.

Mother believes in her. Mother is going to help her get her son without any blood or blame on her hands, mother knows how to go about these things, mother had made her queen and got her all the power she’d ever known.

(What part of going about these things involves taking the Dark One’s power, choosing power over Regina again, going hungrily after the dagger while her daughter is held back, restrained by the enemy, the threat of a sharp point at her throat? _What is the point of all this, Mother?_ )

Mother dies, at Regina’s own hand, too quickly, too confusingly for her to realise until too late. She curses herself for being too optimistic, too _hopeful_ to sense the dark magic cast over her mother’s heart. (She wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference, mother’s heart is black, blacker than her own and reeks of dark magic and manipulation.) In her last breath, Cora croaks, _you would have been enough_ and it’s something Regina tortures herself over for weeks, months, years later. So much pain, so much suffering, and for what?

Regina cradles her mother’s body on the floor of Gold’s shop, rocks her gently and sobs, too distraught to care about seeming _weak_. She hasn’t felt so incredibly powerless in a long time – since she was a young woman, barely an adult, since the reason she started all of this. She feels like a silly child – a lost child, and she whimpers _what am I gonna do_ to herself through her tears, feeling completely drowned in her grief.

And then Snow, _fucking_ insipid idiotic Snow White, runs in, screams _stop!_ but it’s too late, and then the rage sets in again, icy and simple and protective. Regina shakes with it, clings to it because god knows its easier than being curled up on the floor feeling lost and young and terrified. She growls, “You did this,” and Snow cries, realises what she’s done, what she’s made Regina do, what a grave, grave mistake she’s made.

Cora Mills is dead, and one day, later, Regina might process it, but for now, all she can do is hold desperately onto the fury that has always felt safer than happiness or vulnerability. She powers on, through, makes bad choices, does terrible things, but there’s no longer any pleasure in any of this, in magic or anger – only survival, because now it is all she has.

* * *

Survival.

Survival gets her an irremovable cuff around her slender wrist that shuts off her magic, essentially severs her from touching any vaguely magical energy. She feels like she’s suffocating, but then again, maybe that’s just the panic rising inside her, the panic attack she _will not have here_ because it’s been so long since she’s had a full-blown one and she won’t show any weakness for these pieces of moronic shit.

Survival lands her on a cool metal table in an abandoned building that stinks of – fish? Survival gets her pumped full of electricity, one of this world’s crueller inventions, at least to Regina right now. Survival gets her shocked over and over again, drawn to the edge of consciousness repeatedly until her heart rabbits in her chest unevenly and she can feel the tempting draw of death, cool and painless and dangling just out of reach.

She doesn’t scream or cry. _Won’t._ When everything fades to black, Regina is just relieved because whatever damage Mendel’s done to her, at least she can’t feel it anymore.

She’s half sure she’s dead, actually – had teetered on the edge too many times and felt her heart clench and flutter and skip and finally, surely, it’s happened and she’s dead.

After what could be hours or days, Regina awakes in a pile of soft, floral sheets, cutesy cushions, and knitted blankets. Her whole body _aches_ , her head pounding and her shoulders and back sore, every nerve in her feeling fried to a crisp. There’s a numb tingle in the tips of her fingers that fills her with fear because she knows she will probably live, but there are some things that never heal. What happens to a magic user who casts with her hands if she sustains nerve damage? She would really rather not find out.

The Charmings are leaning over her, faces solemn. Snow has a cool damp cloth pressed to Regina’s forehead and she’s already tensing, expecting the fury that should come to her instantly, but it doesn’t. Gods, she’s just _tired_ and foggy and the cloth feels so nice against her sweaty skin, so she allows it for a moment.

If Rumple and her mother could see her now.

(oh god, _mother,_ and that loss still sears her heart, fills her with all kinds of confusing feelings, especially lying here in Snow White’s bed.)

She clears her throat, murmurs hoarsely, _you saved me,_ because she can’t quite believe, can’t fathom why these people she’s hurt so much would give a damn about her, why they’d show mercy – why they don’t hate her and why she can’t find the anger within herself.

“You really thought we’d let you die?” David says with a frown, and Regina feels her face crumple because she doesn’t _understand,_ and she wishes they had, and everything is always so confusing and fucked up for her, for them. Later, Snow will admit that she _had_ been medically dead for a few minutes, her heart having given up its desperate, fighting flutter, and she will close her eyes and pray for nothingness. If Henry doesn’t love her, she has no reason to breathe or fight, and she is so tired of doing both when it only leads to more pain piled on top of old trauma and festering wounds.

And _then_ she finally feels a tiny flicker of anger, for once not at Snow or any of the other heroes, and after that, a horrible, shaking revelation that fills her with fear. “ _Where are they,”_ she exhales slowly, furiously. Because she has never taken well to being rendered powerless, to hurt, and those bastards have the one thing that will destroy _everything_ here, including her and her son. _They got away,_ are the last words she would like to hear, and she tells them everything and watches them panic, is right there with them.

Snow and David rush off to do their hero thing, to look for clues where they might have gone, and Regina is restless with anxiety, but ultimately still too weak and injured to do anything useful. Instead, she slips in and out of consciousness for most of the day until finally, late afternoon, she wakes and feels almost clear-headed – lucid, her vision no longer blurred by the pain in her head, but still stiff and sore.

Emma is perched on the stairs, watching her with a conflicted look when she sits up and scrapes a hand through her sweaty hair. “Miss Swan,” she mutters. “Y’know, it’s not polite to watch people sleep.”

“Sorry,” the blonde answers and doesn’t seem very sorry at all – just distracted, foggy. The side of her face is coming up a nice mottled shade of mauve, so there must have been a fight. Emma must have fought – for her, to get her free, to get her out of that hellhole. So maybe she doesn’t really hate Regina after all.

Interesting.

“You helped get me out?” Regina asks, drawing the blankets higher up her torso.

Emma nods, silent. And then, finally, uncomfortably, “We couldn’t let you die. I couldn’t – Henry would have been distraught.”

“Henry,” she whispers, and nods. Henry. “Is he – is he safe, does he know?”

“He’s at the park with Granny. We didn’t want to tell him more than necessary. He doesn’t know anything right now.” It’s for the best, Regina thinks, to keep him naïve of the gory details, keep him away until she doesn’t look like she’s on death’s door. But she wants to see him.

“You feeling any better?” Emma asks softly.

“Like I got hit by a bus, but I’m alive, if that’s what you mean,” Regina answers glibly. She must look like shit still. She certainly feels like it.

Emma snorts, a bleak little thing but terribly _her_ to find humour in such a grim time for the both of them. “Well, I can get out of your way and go and find the kid, give you some privacy to wash up and stuff if you promise to not die on us in the half hour I’ll be gone.”

Regina nods, because god, a hot shower does sound good, and seeing her son sounds even better. “I think I can manage without a Charming babysitter for five minutes, Miss Swan. Go.”

And Emma nods, stands and clenches her fist awkwardly. She takes a step to the door, and then seems to change her mind and draws nearer to the bed instead, slow and cautious. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “For not believing you before about Archie. And for getting mad when we thought you'd fallen off the wagon, and letting you get swept back up in your mom’s bullshit.” Her face softens from the mask of numbness she’s been wearing into something earnest, sorrowful. “I should have known.” There's too much knowing there, the understanding that their situations have been different but terribly similar, and they've both suffered too much for it.

Regina just sucks in a deep breath. She’s not ready to talk about her mother yet, not with Emma, not with _anyone_ – there’s too much to unpack and if she begins thinking, other things are bound to completely unravel into terrifying uncertainty. So she can’t, and can’t say it’s ok and appease Emma’s guilt, because it’s _not_ and she’s angry still. But she nods curtly. “Thank you.”

A beat passes with the two of them looking at each other, something unsaid passing between them, and then Emma nods too. Without another word, she heads out and lets the door click shut behind her, leaving Regina alone in the loft.

It takes her longer than she’d like to even stand up, let alone walk, shower away the sweat and grime, and dress again, and not for the first time these last months, she curses out magic and its way of ruining everything and swallowing her whole.

Really, she should not be out of bed so soon, but she is, out of sheer force of will because they don’t have a choice, _she_ doesn’t have a choice – the trigger is in the wrong hands, and she suspects she already knows how this plays out. There’s little they can do to stop it, but there is _something_ she can do. The heroes argue, snap at each other, and Regina just feels strangely calm with the knowledge that it will be ok, Henry will be ok and that is _all_ that matters.

She hugs him tight before they leave, whispers quiet words to him and pours her everythinginto making sure he feels loved. She feels her heart squeeze when he answers _I love you too._

It’s more than enough.

And it all goes just as expected – it’s too late to stop the trigger now that it’s been activated, but _she_ can slow it down at least, she can be the hero for once, if just for her little boy. Emma realises – good, smart Emma, the only one of those idiots with any brains at all, and she whispers, impossibly quiet, _Regina, please_.

Regina smiles weakly, cheeks wet. “Let me die as Regina,” she murmurs softly, and Emma understands again, like she had at the well, like she had in the interrogation room, before all that shit with mother. With a frown, Emma tilts her head respectfully, and reluctantly turns to leave, but falters, turns again. 

_“Regina–”_ and those big, earnest puppy-dog eyes of hers have Regina’s chest tightening, but it’s too late and she begins pouring the little magic she has left into the activated diamond, trembling with the strain of it and gasping with the release. It feels terrible, like she’s being bled of everything she is, drained of her life-force.

And it feels amazing, because this is the end, this is a _good thing_ she’s doing, and afterwards everything is going to be ok. Henry is going to be ok, and safe, and loved, and he will know that in the end, she had been just _Regina._

For once, maybe she will be enough.


End file.
